


Throw Life Into This Spinning Hands

by dr_zook



Category: Krabat | The Satanic Mill - Otfried Preußler
Genre: Canon Compliant, Developing Friendships, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Physical Abuse, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2019-07-14 11:06:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16039211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dr_zook/pseuds/dr_zook
Summary: Worshula dies, and Tonda's hair turns as white as chalk. He dreams about her now, every night since her death.After three weeks Tonda cannot fathom how he is supposed to live like this any longer.





	Throw Life Into This Spinning Hands

**Author's Note:**

  * For [schneefink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/schneefink/gifts).



> This is written as a gift for schneefink's prompt: _I've long wondered why Tonda is still alive when Krabat arrives at the mill. The previous year he'd planned to challenge the miller if Worschula hadn't died, and yet he survived? Why did the miller choose someone else to die? I would love to see Tonda or Juro's thoughts on that, or any Tonda &Juro friendship, really._
> 
> I'm so, so very sorry for the delay, dear schneefink! I hope you like it still. :D
> 
> Huge thanks to liriaen for beta - without them this would be impossible to read, I swear. ♥
> 
> The title is a line from the song _[Higher](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QNShcdA_VhI)_ by MADRUGADA.

One early autumn morning the fellows step outside to wash themselves, and see how this year's first frost has scuttled his load across the meadows. They look at each other and go on in silence.  
  
Juro watches them from the small kitchen window. He has risen first, like always. But today his heart beat faster when his nose caught the air of something both overripe and cold.  
  
He knows something has happened the moment the Master steps outside and rumbles one name over the fellows' heads: "Tonda."  
  
Looking up, Tonda brushes his clammy, ash-blonde fringe from the forehead. "Master?" He wipes himself with a cloth.  
  
The Master just nods towards his study and disappears.  
  
The others look at each other with definite unease. Nobody dares to say a word. Nobody dares to meet Tonda's gaze.  
  
Tonda swallows, and grabs his shirt. "You can start breaking fast without me," he says no-one in particular. "I'll join you afterwards."  
  
Some of the fellows grunt affirmatively and go on with their washing.  
  
Tonda takes a last look at them, then straightens his back and steps inside.  
  
Juro swallows, turns away from the window and puts the spoons onto the table.

 

.:.

  
  
The Master is sitting in his chair behind the great oaken table when Tonda enters the study. He shuffles and reorganizes the papers strewn across it. The window is closed, the curtain half-drawn. Crisp air hasn't touched anything inside here for a long time.  
  
"In case you wonder: she won't come," the Master begins conversationally, without looking up.  
  
Tonda's finger glide from the knob of the door. "What?" His voice is small and trembles, he cannot stop it.  
  
"She won't come," the Master repeats, slower and a tad smug. The shuffling has stopped.  
  
"I'm afraid I don't know what you are talking about," Tonda says. He turns and tries to face the Master. It's tough, but he manages. Invisible stones are setting on his shoulders. He wrings the shirt still in his hands.  
  
"Worshula," the Master says lightly, his gaze now catching Tonda. "The basket weaver's daughter. She drowned herself this morning."  
  
A sickness is rising in Tonda. It starts in his belly and darkens his heart, wastes his muscles and frays his bones. He staggers towards the Master, who rises slowly and grabs his walking cane as he closes the distance between them.  
  
The cane is lifted elegantly and whipped across Tonda's face.  
  
Tonda crashes to the ground, the invisible stones crushing his limbs. "No," he whispers, but he feels it's true.  
  
She's dead.  
  
And he, Tonda, has killed her. The beech wood of the floor is worn and stained, his jaw feels numb. His soul, too.  
  
"You think you are so smart," the Master says, leaning now against the front of his desk, crossing his ankles. "But you are not. You are reckless," he spits.  
  
Tonda groans, "No, please," and tries to crawl towards the Master. It's like trudging through peat, he feels half-blind and deaf. But he manages somehow.  
  
"Selfish," the Master concludes. "You didn't think about your brothers."  
  
No, he didn't. The Master is right. The sickness is crawling up Tonda's throat, he coughs. "Worshula," he mumbles, and his fingers find the Master's riding boots. The clasps are tarnished and dull. He clings to the black-clad ankles, but the Master steps out of his grasp and kicks his shoulder, so Tonda is shoved on his back.  
  
His eyeballs threaten to roll out, they feel so dry and coarse against his lids. Wondering how he can still be able to breathe he thinks about Worshula's pale cheeks, and how easily he could make her blush. Her eyelashes as fair as the hair of her thick braids.  
  
The Master puts one boot on Tonda's chest, pressing down. "How could you dare?" His growl runs through Tonda's marrow, freezing him. "To turn against me, turn against all of us?" He spits on his face. "I will teach you how to behave, disciple."

.:.

  
  
Three quarter hours later Tonda stumbles out of the study. His trembling hands clench his shirt, his upper body still bare, but he cannot put cloth on his skin yet.  
  
The parlour is bleak and silent. His fellows have already dispersed to go after their work. He hears the creaking and grinding of the mill. Flour dust dances across the beams of cold sunlight trapped inside the building.  
  
The door to the kitchen opens slowly, and Juro stares at him. For a few heartbeats none of them moves, then the door opens wider. "Come," Juro says with a nod, already disappearing inside.  
  
Tonda aches. His heart is torn, more than the skin the Master's blows have split. Perhaps Juro has some salve, some spare clean cloth to clean the wounds.  
  
But that's not what Tonda deserves, no. He has killed her, he should not seek relief. He grabs his shirt tighter and leaves through the front door, set on finding Worshula, or whatever is left of her.

.:.

  
  
He returns at night.  
  
On his way to the village he wondered why he was allowed to leave the mill. Why he was able to seek out Worshula's house. But when her mother screamed at him as soon as she saw him, and her brothers beat him from their land he understood.  
  
He returns at night, and his hair has turned as white as chalk.

.:.

  
  
He dreams about her now, every night since her death.  
  
Mud drips from her nostrils. She is crowned with a mallard's nest, and mouldering reed flows from the mouth she has opened widely to wail.  
  
His fellows try putting him back to sleep when he wakes with his thrashing. After three weeks Tonda cannot fathom how he is supposed to live like this any longer.

.:.

  
  
Tonda slouches through the rooms, does his work. He fears sleep, because he can never calm down Worshula. Her eyes are the worst because they seem alive and caged within this dream as well.

.:.

  
  
It's the end of October, the Master has left the mill and announced he will not be back before next afternoon.  
  
Tonda is the last to leave the kitchen after supper, but Juro blocks his way. He tries to step aside, but Juro's angry face stops him. "What," he manages to ask. His voice sounds unused.  
  
Juro grabs him by the frock. "You think the Master wants you to suffer? Maybe. But most of all he's not allowed to end you yet. That's the Goodman's decision. And the Goodman doesn't care if you tried to find your luck with a girl or not. He has his tally stick, and the cock's plume. That's all." He lets go of Tonda, showing his own empty hands, and raises his eyebrows. He takes a step backwards, inhales deeply.  
  
Tonda's mind reels. He has never heard Juro talk so much at once. Never mind the things he said. "What," he tries again, but falters.  
  
Juro laughs. It's a small and bitter noise. "I'm sorry," he says.  
  
The palm Tonda wipes over his face is warm and dry. "What for?"  
  
"Your girl. This," Juro shrugs lightly. "Everything." He looks at his feet.  
  
Tonda feels a bit sick, but it can't be his stomach. "Why… How do you know these things?"  
  
Juro's gaze shifts, and he leads them both back to the table. Shadows flicker around him like flames about to die. "I'm not as dumb as I seem," Juro says. "I can play along, I know most of the rules." He puts his hands flat on the table between them.  
  
"Who taught you?"  
  
Juro stares at him. "My aunt."  
  
Something close to the laugh of a madman escapes Tonda. "What do you want? Now? Are you mocking me?"  
  
"No!," Juro declares with wide eyes. "You must believe me that I'm sorry. I-- I didn't know before-- I just learned how to sway dreams. Or how to not have them."  
  
Tonda only stares, like his ears were failing him now, too. "What?"  
  
Juro twists his fingers, his stammer returns. "Not my aunt-- Did you know I can re-- read?" He is not meeting Tonda's eyes. "I read it in-- in the Koraktor. I made this," he lifts his hands and a small wooden pendant lies on the table. There are symbols carved into it and Tonda can't tell if the cord is made of leather or flax.  
  
"You can what?"  
  
"Take it, Tonda. Please. Put it around your neck before you go to sleep."  
  
"Why are you doing this?" Tonda asks, not yet taking the gift.  
  
"Revenge," Juro says quietly. "You want it, don't you? If you want to be clear-minded about it, I can help you."  
  
_Revenge_. Tonda has never thought about it in it's seriousness. His life has been a daily struggle since Worshula's death, and his attempts at ending it were for nought.  
  
Juro lifts his hands; below lies a knife. One where you can flick the blade inside the wooden handle. "Take this."  
  
Tonda looks at him warily. "I have a knife already."  
  
"Not like this. It tells you if you're in danger. _When_ you're in danger."  
  
Tonda swallows, the ache between his ribs beating a dull tattoo. The blade handle is slim and elegant, and a subtle whiff of something rich and seasoned drifts past. Something he thought to never smell again. "What--"  
  
"It's maple wood. Always smells of incense, even centuries after cutting." Juro looks at him. "Did you know that?"  
  
Tonda's eye-lids feel heavy, his heart is tired. "No, I-- I don't know nothing," he says crestfallen. "Why are you telling me these things? Why aren't you telling the others?" _Why me_ , isn't what he asks. Nor: _Why didn't you tell me before?_  
  
"Why didn't you tell Janko?" Tonda eventually rasps.  
  
Juro's eyes grow bigger, then they slit. "How? I didn't know a thing then. Or at least not enough."  
  
"He's dead now," Tonda says. Not accusingly, but envious.  
  
Juro dares to snort. "I guess it was… bad luck. He was next anyway. Probably."  
  
Slowly, one finger after the other, Tonda takes hold of the knife. It has a good weight. He pulls the blade out of the handle, probes its sharpness. A small bead of blood appears at the tip of his index finger. "Revenge," he says slowly.  
  
Juro nods. "I'm sure it's possible. We don't have to give up yet."  
  
"We," Tonda repeats and looks at his fellow. The fire is still crackling behind. Juro has yet to prepare it for the night.  
  
"Yes," Juro says. "We have to try, don't you think?" His hand crawls over Tonda's and this is also a good weight, he thinks.


End file.
